Goldilocks
by chatte blanche
Summary: Sunday afternoons are for playing and frolicking, not working. Royai. Lime. Readers loved and reviews very appreciated.


**Disclaimer**: If I were Hiromu Arakawa or anyone who owned FMA, trust me. I would not be writing Royai fanfiction. No. Because it would be canon that Roy and Riza (secretly) boink like bunnies that are constantly in heat and are aware that they only have one day to live and reproduce. ;D

**Goldilocks**

_It was always there. It had always been there, hiding. Lingering in the corner, peeking out from dark corner. Waiting for them to seize upon it, make it go away. They couldn't live their lives like this, not with—_

The scent of vanilla, gunpowder, and dust caught his senses as he stared up at the ceiling, lying flat on his back in the old attic. His onyx eyes traced the dust motes as they danced in the still air.

He could hear her. And yet at the same time, he couldn't. His gaze abandoned the dust motes, back onto _her_, his eyes moving down her honey-coated eyelashes, her chocolate-dipped orbs, her pert nose, her pouty mouth that was forming letters he could not hear above the ringing in his ears.

Her mouth continued to move. And move. And move.

(It looked like she was hysterical, he observed. Served her right for making him do work on a lovely Sunday afternoon! What kind of woman was she, anyways? Choosing work over play. Hadn't she ever heard of the adage "All work and no play makes Jack – well, _Jean_, maybe, he didn't know any Jacks, Jean was the closest he got – a dull boy?")

Unexpectedly, sound. The ringing had disappeared; her loud voice flooded into his ears.  
"I am so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know that it would explode like that! For heaven's sake, it was degraded gunpowder…"

(Didn't she know when to stop talking? Her voice, usually welcome, was only aggravating matters. This was worse than showing up to work with a hangover.)

"… Can you hear me?..."

(Of course he could. His head was pounding; her voice was deafening, insistent.)

"… I'm so sorry!..."

(Sorry? What did she have to be sorry for, a simple mistake? He was sorry, too. He was apologetic. Penitent. Contrite. But for different reasons than hers. No amount of penance, he believed, could bring absolution. 'I'm sorry' just didn't work.)

"I'm so sorry! Ohmigod."

(At this, he winced. Ohmigod did not suit her well. Ohmigod was for women with lives spiraling out of control, into an abyss of chaos. No, she was the epitome of order. The converse of chaos.)

He had to do something.  
Not only was her voice driving him nuts (his headache was worsening by the minute), but he also couldn't stand seeing her like this, hysterical, unkempt, frantic. Words didn't seem right, not for this moment, not for this opportunity.

So he reacted naturally.  
(Men's intuition, he noted.)

Grabbed her firmly by the collar, pulling her towards him. Her mouth parted – to say something, he presumed – but before words could drop out of her mouth, his lips met hers.  
Resistance, and then, she softened, leaning into him. A soft smacking sound as their lips broke apart, then met again. Blond locks cascaded down her shoulders; the clip clattered to the ground. Lost. Forgotten.

"Goldilocks," he breathed into her ear, causing her to smile, even blush a little.  
It was his private nickname for her. For her ears alone.

His teeth nibbling on her ears, tugging at her earrings; his hands, traveling down her shirt, under her shirt. Rough fingertips pressing into her bare skin. Arm wrapping around a slender waist, touch possessive.  
Her hands fumbling at the buttons on his shirt, less skilled at this timeless art.  
(They both needed it. It had been so long…)

Her breath, quickening. He could feel his heart racing, faster, faster. Her nails digging into his skin; they'd traded places. His head didn't hurt anymore, his back didn't ache; funny how a Sunday romp was the cure for everything.

Flesh against flesh.  
Sweat with sweat.

She breathed out his name in one rushed gasp, one strangled cry. "Roy…"  
He slumped against her shortly afterwards, being careful not to crush her. Nuzzled her sweaty neck with his nose.  
"… sounds good with Riza." A whisper.

_And it – the __**tension**, gripping viselike at their hearts – suddenly left._

**_Fin._**

**Author's Note**: What started out as a hundred word drabble turned into this. –sigh-  
I haven't written Royai fanfiction in a long, long time. Heh, heh, real life? Ooops?  
I admit, it's much more artsy than my usual fics. I had fun. (Only ruined it! I can't use fancy brackets, apparently.)  
Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Now… back to Shakespeare! xD;

Chatte!

(… And Two Little Bars is still on hiatus until I find some time to begin writing again.)


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